


...is Bliss

by DesertWillow



Series: The Comfortable Memories [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon Asexual Character, Canonical Memory Loss, Fluff and Angst, Inherent tragedy, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Set in Episodes 180-181 | Upton Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives), Upton House (The Magnus Archives)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-15 14:55:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29437893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DesertWillow/pseuds/DesertWillow
Summary: Insights into the moments spent at Upton House.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: The Comfortable Memories [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2164776
Comments: 16
Kudos: 38





	...is Bliss

After closing the door to their room, Martin and Jon just looked at each other. 

“So, what now?” Jon had this nervous energy bubbling in him that he hadn’t felt in…well, _a while_ was about as close a time frame as he could give. But for the first time since he had opened the Door, he had nothing pressing to do, no immediate goal in mind, and didn’t quite know what to do with himself.

“We could…” Jon watched Martin’s eyes flick around the room, not landing on any one thing. He looked as adrift as Jon felt, and the room was not offering much in the way of ideas. It was rather bare, museum-like in its organized cleanliness. Likely meant for a quick peek in from a tourist group or to showcase the facilities for wedding parties — a reflection of how it was used and could be used again, but rarely actually stayed in. Much too old and too grand for common public use. Due to the Apocalypse, however, Upton House had currently slipped into private ownership.

After waking up from their impromptu nap, they had made extensive use of their ensuite bathroom, eaten a veritable feast, and spoken to their host before eating again. Jon felt full of food in a way he hadn’t since at least before the Unknowing, likely much longer. He had honestly forgotten what it felt like to be clean and fed and comfortable like _this_ , like he was truly human once more. But with that feeling came all of the other aspects of humanity, like his shoddy arches aching and the lazy drowsiness from too much food.

He looked back at Martin with his adorably confused head tilt, still looking overwhelmed by the chance to just _be_ without everything else pressing down around them.

“Honestly, do you just want to lay down for a bit?” Martin asked, as if he couldn’t believe the answer was that simple.

“God, yes,” Jon rushed out with a sigh. “I mean— only if you want to as well. We did just wake up a few hours ago.”

“True,” he replied, sitting on the edge of the mattress and unlacing his boots. “But when was the last time we just lounged about for a while?”

Jon needed no other incentive and toed off his own shoes, not bothering to unlace them before climbing onto the old but deceptively plush half tester bed. The mattress was likely a recent replacement made by Salesa, but Jon didn’t Know for sure, which just added an extra layer of comfort.

Martin propped up the pillows some and leaned back, keeping his arm extended to let Jon nestle into it cosily. “Including the Extinction couch?” He grinned cheekily up at Martin who replied with a small glare. “—Not since Scotland.” 

They cuddled for a bit in soft, personable silence. After a few beats, Martin placed a small kiss on the crown of Jon’s head. “Don’t think I want to spend _all_ my time in bed here, though. I’d like to explore the grounds and such. Never really got the chance to see a place like this before.”

Jon shrugged from his place in Martin’s arms, made awkward only by their arrangement. But he’d rather that, than not be in his arms at all. “Never been my ‘thing,’ as it were. I do remember the gardens having something unique about them. Don’t remember exactly what, but something that excited my younger self enough that I still have a vague impression of being-...well, impressed.”

Martin kissed the top of his forehead again. “Well, another mystery for you to suss out then.”

They stayed happily wrapped up with each other for a bit more, Martin running his fingers through Jon’s hair, Jon tracing nonsense patterns across Martin’s chest. Eventually, Martin asked, “Anything that _you_ want to do while we’re here? I know we can’t stay, but we should enjoy the mini-holiday while we can.”

Jon leaned up quickly, wanting a better view of Martin’s face. “You don’t want to stay?”

Martin’s eyes were casting around the room again, not meeting his own. “I didn’t say that,” he mumbled. He didn’t immediately elaborate, and Jon fought the urge to press him about it. The Eye had no influence on him here and he would have some _self_ control, thank you. His restraint was rewarded with Martin finally looking back at him with a sigh. “It just— it doesn’t feel right though, does it? Having all this luxury at our fingertips while knowing everyone else in the world is suffering right now. Knowing that we’re quite possibly the only people who can do something about it.”

“Yes,” Jon started, “but if it would keep you safe —”

Martin pulled Jon near so that their foreheads rested against one another. “Don’t. Please. I won’t leave you, Jon. I’d feel even worse about it if I knew you were out there alone.”

Jon closed his eyes and kissed him lightly, barely a ghost of his lips on Martin’s. “Alright, I’ll consider the matter closed.” He pulled just back enough to look Martin in the eyes. “But only as long as you always consider the option still open to _you_. If it becomes too much out there, say the word and we’ll come back. No questions asked.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Martin replied with a resigned huff. Jon kissed him again, deeper, deciding he was going to create as many memories as he could of kissing Martin here, without the ever-present hum of other people's terrors in the background, without feeling like a fear demi-god and more like a regular man, without the Eye pressing down from above, never letting them feel _unwatched._

They did eventually settle back into their previous arrangement — though looking a tad more ruffled and flushed than before — only Jon placed his head directly on Martin’s chest this time, wanting to hear Martin’s heart beating at a steady rate for once, unaccompanied by a soundtrack of horror. A solo performance of Martin’s whole being, for an audience of Jon alone.

“The place is nice though,” Martin said with a wistful sigh, his voice rumbling under Jon’s head and around his entire awareness. “I definitely wouldn’t have minded going to a place like this before.”

Jon replied with a dozy ‘hmm’ of agreement, hoping to assure Martin he was still actually listening to his words and not just his vitals. Quite frankly, this was Jon’s favourite place in the world; not a Heritage Trust mansion in an elaborate grand bed, no. But laying half on top of Martin listening to him speak, Martin’s arms around him and his words blanketing him against everything that wasn’t just the two of them. 

This. This was what Jon wanted to do with his mini-holiday. Wrap himself up with Martin and just _be_ with him for once. A truly novel experience.

“Maybe once the world is fixed we could go on a small tour of a few other estates. Get a camper van or something. I’ve always wanted to visit Newstead Abbey,” Martin continued.

Jon gave a small derisive but still fond— always fond now — chuckle. “Mmm, you and your Romantic poets. I can forgive Keats, but Lord Byron really doesn’t deserve any of your regard.”

“Hey! It-It’s not _just_ because of Byron!” Jon gave a sleepy ‘I’m sure’ sound from Martin’s chest, not moving despite Martin’s outraged floundering. “It’s not! Byron and Keats _hated_ each other. But Newstead wasn’t too far from home so I knew plenty of people who’ve been and it honestly…” Martin sighed a little. “It just sounded rather lovely. Did you know it had 16 different oases throughout the grounds?”

A ‘mmm’ of confirmation from Jon. He felt like he _did_ actually know that, but enjoyed that he was uncertain.

“I had a picture from the Japanese garden there as my phone background for a bit. Even thought it’d be nice to get married there, if the money worked out.”

“Always figured I’d get married in Oxford,” Jon murmured, so deeply relaxed that he was now half asleep. “But lately I’ve been thinking Gretna Green would be nice for us.”

All his relaxed, sleepy haze completely evaporated once Jon processed what he had said. He didn’t move at all, body locked in place with panic while his thoughts shattered out of his control. 

This wasn’t— they had never officially talked about this before. Oh God, Martin hadn’t said anything yet. Had he caught it? Was he horrified and trying to form a neutral response? Not because it was _Jon_ asking— Martin had made it clear their first night in Scotland he was standing by Jon, and he reinforced that sentiment emphatically in a thousand different ways all the time. But that didn’t mean Martin wanted to _marry_ him. They’d only had three weeks of the vaguest hints of normalcy in a relationship before everything around them became a living nightmare. No matter how long it felt, everything since had been just a liminal, unreal state; dream logic. Uncountable, and thus _not_ counted. So when the only measurable amount of time available was three weeks, then that’d be too soon, too fast. And who’s to say that even though Martin was fine with being in a relationship with a monster, that marrying a monster was also fine? Jon certainly wasn’t going to speak for him. And asking like _that_ , without asking at all, just a forgone conclusion. As if Jon had just gone and planned all of Martin’s life for him. Jon felt monstrous, Eldritch fear-god not required. It was supposed to be just a private daydream, a thought to keep him going about what it _could_ be like. Never intended to be framed as if it _should_ and _would_ be like that. This was what relaxat— 

“Us?” Martin squeaked out.

_Shit. Shit shit shit._

Jon was an emotional coward. He knew this. If given the choice to either run or have to actually _talk_ about his _feelings_ and inner _thoughts_ , he would prefer to run if it was all the same. 

...But he owed it to Martin to properly sit up, look him in the eyes, and actually have this conversation face to face.

“Yes, just—” Alright, so he couldn’t take looking _directly_ at Martin, afraid of what he’d see there. He was speaking more to Martin’s shoulder and left arm than to his face. “Just… felt, hmm, poetic, I guess.” A blue thread was loose on Martin’s sleeve. He wanted to fix it. Have something to do with his hands rather than just twist the quilt into knots. “We’ve already run off to Scotland together once.” He tried for a small smile, but was fairly certain that wasn’t what his face was actually doing. “Figured you could make an honest man out of me.” He winced. Good lord, was he really so desperate he was reaching for such an asinine cliché? 

Apprehensive, he braved a glance at Martin’s face and the sight sent Jon helplessly adrift. He was completely flushed, his mouth kept parting trying to form words, and his eyes shone alarmingly. 

“You want to marry me?” Martin eventually managed between shaky breaths.

Needing to do _something,_ Jon placed his hands on either side of Martin’s face, prepared if any tears did begin to form. “Of course I do. Once everything is… is s-settled of course.” He needed to explain, to fix this. Prove he wasn’t an absolute clod. “When it gets too overwhelming out there, when I start to panic and overthink about what we’re trying to do, knowing we need to just push through but worrying I won’t make a difference or I’ll just make things worse… I-I-I focus on that instead. I think about what our life would’ve been like if Jonah hadn’t interrupted it. Or what it could be like once he’s gone and we can start moving on.” His thumbs were softly stroking Martin’s cheeks. “And I want to find out for myself one day.”

Martin shifted, sitting up as well, mirroring him. The movement made it necessary for Jon to remove his hands, but Martin didn’t let them fully fall away and took them into his own. “Oh, Jon.” Some tears did threaten form then and it made Jon ache. But Martin was holding his hands, running his thumb across Jon’s fingers — his ring finger in particular — and Martin let out a breathy giggle, his smile bright and carefree in a way Jon hadn’t seen in so, _so_ long. And Jon realized that he had done that. He’d made Martin smile like that. And that Martin was _smiling_ , a sweet, happy smile. That these were good reactions, not signs that Martin was about to pull away because Jon was asking for too much. This was happening. And Jon had a chance here to do this better.

Jon slid one hand free and traced Martin’s jaw. He took a deep breath, and made sure that when he spoke, his voice was serious and sincere. “This is not a marriage proposal. It won’t be until I have a ring and we’re both safe. But…” He took one more steadying breath. “Martin Blackwood, after we have saved the world, would you like me to ask you to marry me?”

“Yes, Jon, y-yes.” Martin pulled him into a searing kiss and Jon realized that he was actually crying a little— when had he started? A while ago, if his dripping chin was any gauge.

“Now we really need to take down that pompous dickhead,” Martin murmured against Jon’s lips. “I’ll take him out with my bare hands if I have to!” 

Jon laughed. “I’m certain you would,” and kissed him some more.

They pulled away after a minute— only a small bit, but enough to look at each other properly. “This wasn’t how I intended to broach the topic. I didn’t exactly have a plan yet, but it wasn’t this. I didn’t mean to sound like I was issuing an edict. I’m sorry that I—”

Martin silenced him with a brief, chaste kiss, breaking away with a small sniffle and very fond chuckle. “Jon, this has been the most romantic moment of my life, I never— You just — …I-i-it was really nice.” His sentence shyly trailed off. 

Jon couldn’t help the small self-deprecating, if slightly insecure smile. “Just nice?” He carefully modulated his voice to sound closer to a gentle tease, not willing to let his anxiety intrude on the moment.

Martin did outright laugh then, pulling away so he could wipe his eyes properly. “I said, _really_ nice! We’re— we’re in a historic mansion! We’re fed a-and we’re safe and comfortable in a way we haven’t been in _years,_ Jon— from back when years were an actual _thing_ that had _meaning_. And you said it just so casually but so sincerely that you _must_ have been thinking about this for a while, which is _way_ better than feeling like it was… I don’t know... more about the drama of the event than the actuality of being with me? The perfect balance of romantic but not feeling like a show. Practically everything I could have ever dreamt of. Five stars! Liked and subscribed! Full marks!”

Jon kissed him again, unable to resist his endearing ramble. It was an awkward thing around the grin Jon couldn't seem to get off his face, but that just made it all the better. They broke apart after a bit, Jon still clutching Martin to him, unwilling to let him move _so_ desperately far away as an entire _inch_. 

So it was more into Martin’s curls than to Martin’s face that Jon tentatively asked, “Just for future reference, what would it take for it to actually be everything you’ve ever dreamed of? For when I do get that ring.”

“I can’t really think of a lot of ways this could be better…” Martin’s voice was so breathlessly bewildered at the idea of _better_ Jon felt less and less like he had bungled it up. “I mean beyond, you know, the apocalyptic elephant in the room. …Maybe candles?” Martin was silent a moment more and then said much more confidently. “Since you’ve convinced me Gretna Green is where we should have the ceremony—”

“I have, have I?”

“I want to swap Upton House for Newstead Abbey. And without any snide remarks about Byron, if you please.”

“For you, of course.” Jon chuckled and squeezed Martin into a tight hug. But a moment later, he murmured into Martin’s hair. “But Byron deserves them and you know it.”

Jon felt Martin’s roaring laugh as much as he heard it, a physical echo of his own thunderous joy.

Privately, Jon felt that the hypothetical future proposal —with its ring and candles and Byron, where they’d somehow both survived and were safe— would only serve to make it official for a world where ‘official’ actually meant something. Not to say it wouldn’t matter or would be closer to the show Martin was worried about, nothing like that. Just that it would act as a tangible date, marking a moment they’d planned in earnest. A sign that they had made it through to think beyond hypotheticals. 

But Jon understood all too well that any idyllic future would likely never happen, that it was just the fiction they’d been telling themselves in order to keep going and all it ever would be. And the tense lines through Martin’s shoulders whenever they’d spoken about any future beyond the Panopticon told Jon that he understood as well, even if he put on a brave face. 

This, though? This was real, and had already happened. This was something they _did_ get to have. 

In Jon’s heart, he stopped thinking of Martin as ‘his boyfriend’ but rather as ‘his future husband.’ He had made a promise to marry this amazing man if given the chance, and isn’t that all engagements actually were? They might get robbed of any sort of future, idyllic or not, but they still got to have this.

* * *

They didn’t leave their room at all that day, choosing instead to reconnect in all the ways the apocalypse had taken from them. Quiet intimacies like slow dancing to the piano music that drifted throughout the house, Martin resting his head on top of Jon’s head, listening to him hum the snippets he knew. But even baser things —flagrantly making out like a couple of teenagers, rushing and desperate, afraid of getting caught by parents returning home early (nevermind that neither of them actually knew what that was like).

Instead of eating with Selasa in the grand dining room, they brought their dinners up to their room, ignoring the small breakfasting table in favor of a picnic on the carpet. They shared a bottle of white wine that went well with the simple meal Jon had cooked, and left them both a bit giddier than before they’d opened it.

Getting ready for bed took longer than usual. Shy touches and casual kisses were frequently exchanged, turning a simple change of clothes to much more intricate dance. 

Jon fished out the cheap brush he’d bought at a Boots on the way to the safehouse. Already poorly suited for Jon’s thick waves, it had since been dragged through multiple fearscapes at the bottom of his bag. Jon suspected it still remained a hair brush only because he hated the damn thing so much.

He was only a few strokes in before Martin said, “Let me, before you just rip it all out,” taking it out of Jon’s hand before he could even reply. “Sit,” he commanded.

Jon took a seat on the end of the mattress while Martin perched behind him on the rest of bed. Martin had not done it since the change— practicality winning out over sentimentality— but before then, he had brushed Jon’s hair out every night in front of the fire just before bed.

”I swear,” Martin grumbled. “Your hair would have emerged as the next Fear long before the Extinction if it was given half a chance.” 

Jon laughed softly. Martin had become well acquainted with the near sentient mayhem his hair could create: knocking things over, poking Martin in the eye if not slapping him fully in the face, and getting unthinkably tangled, even when it was pulled up. 

“Why do you think I was trying to _beat_ it into submission?” he muttered darkly. He would have cut it ages ago but he hadn’t reacted well to the scissors last time he tried, and that was before a six months long coma made the problem worse. 

“Brush, Jon. The word is bru— Oops, sorry… sorry…” Martin must have caught a snag, but frankly Jon didn’t feel it, too inoculated by his own much harsher treatment. Even though it could not have been easy, Martin was always careful and gently methodical with his hair, something Jon never had the patience for. 

As fewer and fewer knots were found, the brush got put aside and Martin took to working out the stubborn knots in Jon’s back instead. 

“You don’t have—”

“I know I don’t,” Martin cut him off. “But I want to, ‘kay? Just relax for a bit.”

“Not sure that’s a good idea.” Despite his words, Jon did his best to release the tension in his shoulder and let his head loll forward. “Last time I relaxed, I remember botching a potential marriage proposal.”

“I don’t know,” Martin said airily. “Rather think it’s worked out for you, in the end. Still said ‘yes,’ didn’t I?” He pressed his thumb into a particularly bad knot.

“Oh, God, that’s really nice,” Jon let out in a rush after the knot finally gave way.

“Just nice?” 

Jon laughed, realizing he had repeated Martin’s own earlier phrase and Martin’s was making fun of them both. “Yes, yes, you’ve managed to reduce me to a puddle of goo. Now lay out on your stomach so I can return the favor.”

* * *

They spent their days at the house idly, sometimes walking the grounds, Martin determined to catch sight of the peacocks they could hear walking about (“There is no way I am going to believe that murder hell-cry is coming from a bird, Jon! You’re cut off from the Eye here so don’t know everything!”), but more often than not just quietly enjoying their hobbies together, relishing not being on the move. 

Jon was glad they were more or less left to their own devices because he suspected they were quickly becoming saccharinely insufferable, unabashedly grinning at each other for no reason and blushing anytime they made even the briefest of eye contact. Conversations — no matter how serious or silly — were often held in soft murmurs, for no reason other than their inherent intimacy. They took moments to themselves of course, a chance for some breathing room they hadn’t had since leaving the safe house. But every reunion, even just a quick trip to get a drink of water, still resulted in soft kisses and sappy I-missed-yous. Much to his surprise, Jon actually enjoyed being a love-sick idiot, if only for a bit. He was not looking forward to when… _observation_ from outside their happy bubble would keep him from melting into dopey, sentimental snickering any time Martin snuck “really nice” into a sentence.

They talked about Jon’s almost-proposal a bit and what it meant for them, but it was always in a circuitous way. Never in the future tense. Just thoughts and questions, like why Jon thought he’d get married in Oxford and not in Bournemouth or London (it was potentially cheaper and just what a lot of Oxford graduates _did_ ), why Martin worried about a proposal feeling like it wasn’t actually about being with him (his parents, unsurprisingly. More in love with the idea than with each other), and a great deal of “I always thought…” or “I imagined that I would…” statements. Never something as concrete as, “When we get married…” or “I want us…” Those kinds of words only reminded them of how it quite possibly would never happen. 

It really _was_ nice, choosing to stay in the reality where their lives were as simple as arguing that “Do you? And do you? Good. I now pronounce you…” were perfectly good wedding vows (Martin emphatically claimed that they were not), but not needing to worry about “what’s next?” Jon didn’t truly believe they were out of danger or anything, not with a spider always in the periphery of their lives. But even if they weren’t completely _safe_ they were still _safer than normal_. _Safe enough_ to play at normalcy for a bit.

Still, he knew it wouldn’t last. They wouldn’t even get very long; Jon noticed the problem as early as the very next morning but found himself wishing so very hard that he didn’t. 

He was… slipping. His thoughts were scattered and often wandered. He’d stop paying attention midway through a conversation despite his best efforts. He’d forget what he was going to say, or what he stood up to do. 

“You doing alright there?” Martin asked, amused and a little confused. Jon had stood up suddenly at dinner, checking his pockets for a minute. Then he sat right back down once he remembered that his cell phone was a useless brick and he no longer carried it on his person regularly.

“Old habits die hard, I guess,” Jon said dismissively. 

He didn’t want to say anything about it. Didn’t want to worry Martin about something that could easily be attributed to just being without his medication while not tethered to the Eye. He derisively thought back on his past self, thinking that his lifelong ADHD was just _suddenly better_ , that he’d _finally_ outgrown it. Jonathan Sims had beaten the odds and stopped getting his refills. He’d had bigger concerns, such as “What was Tim up to?” and “What was Martin hiding?” _God, what a fool_. 

But this time, it really was _just_ his ADHD, and he refused to worry about it. Without the Eye, his symptoms had just come back, that was all, and they were going to celebrate their pseudo-engagement in peace. Jon wasn’t going to _ruin_ this respite. 

He was still a fool, of course. 

Within days, it wasn’t just small things. It was bigger. For a moment, Jon didn’t understand why Martin brought up Jonah Magnus when they were talking about taking down Elias. At one point he realized he couldn’t remember what his degree was in. 

“You _sure_ you’re doing alright…?” Now, it sounded far closer to how Martin _used_ to ask that question; worried about him, knowing something was wrong, but already resigned to Jon brushing the concern aside. 

It was getting worse than Jon wanted to admit and despite his best efforts, Martin was noticing. Their private little world was crumbling around him.

When he forgot that there were other people in the house with them, confused when he entered the dining room for dinner and found Selasa within, Jon knew it was over. The next morning he needed to confess to Martin, and push the idea of leaving before the end of the day. If Jon forgot that he was living with _Annabelle Cane_ then they had stopped being _safe enough_. 

But not that night. He didn’t want Martin’s last night of sleep in a bed to be anxious and worried. Better he got one last restful night and in the morning, things like “morning” and “night” would stop and “ceaseless terror” could resume its regularly scheduled horror. But Jon just wanted to listen to the sounds of Martin at peace one last time, to memorize it and cherish them, hold them close to his heart for however long he had left.

Martin was an early riser and Jon, as was typical, woke up alone. He rolled into the spot vacated by his fiancé, pulling the blankets with him to make a small little cocoon he wouldn’t emerge from until Martin came to prod him into the land of the living.

Wait— Fiancé?

Martin— Martin was his fiancé.

Yes. That was right.

But… but how?

How did— How did that happen? When had he asked?

He knew that it was true. He knew deep in his heart he had asked Martin to marry him somehow, and Martin had said yes. But he couldn’t remember the details. He could remember them talking about it all week. Making plans, light teasing, shy glances and blushing, overwhelmingly joyful kisses. But _how_ that happened, how they got to that point, that was just… gone. It was gone, and Jon didn’t know what to do.

Well first, he would not panic. He had already planned on speaking to Martin about it, this just made it more urgent. He wasn’t going to cause undue stress. He would be insistent and firm. They had to leave, nothing to be done about it. And he absolutely _would_ _not_ hurt Martin by saying he couldn’t remember one of the most important moments in their relationship. 

He also wasn’t going to leave the rest to chance. 

He scrambled for Martin’s poetry notebook and ripped out a page from the back. In a scrawl that was bordering on incomprehensible, he wrote down every important detail of his life that he could remember. His full name. His birthday. Martin’s birthday. Martin doesn’t really have a middle name. His parents’ and grandmother’s names. Georgie. The Admiral. Working in Research with Tim and Sasha before getting promoted to the Archives. Melanie. Sasha was dead. Smirke’s 14. Basira. Daisy. Tim was dead. Elias Bouchard is Jonah Magnus. Jon was the tool used to end the world. Daisy was dead. Basira wasn’t dead. He didn’t know where Georgie or Melanie were but he had a vague idea. Martin loves him. Martin agreed to marry him. They were going to _fix this_.

It wasn’t comprehensive or even done well. The core parts of him reduced to bullet points, panic fueling him towards quantity rather than quality, hoping that if he forgot anything more, Martin would remind him. Assuming that all his memories back didn’t just come back once they left. 

That was what would likely happen. The Eye was unlikely to withhold knowledge from him. So there was no need to upset Martin over something that would be fixed very soon.

Jon shoved the list into the back pocket of his spare trousers, where it was very unlikely Martin could happen upon the page while they repacked to leave, and even more unlikely once they were back on the road.

The whole exercise must not have taken him very long as Martin still wasn’t back to coax him from his morning blanket fort with promises of tea.

Jon hastily got dressed, finished tying his shoes just as Martin opened the door.

“Oh, you’re up early.”

“We need to leave. Today. Now. As soon as we’re ready.”

* * *

“Nice. It was… It was really nice.”

Jon smiled at him in reply, happy his boyfriend got that moment of peace at least.

Martin kept glancing at him expectantly. A beat. Two. Not even a few steps, but long enough it gave Jon the impression that _he_ was holding up the conversation, and not the other way around. As if Martin had given him something other than just a mournful four word sentence. 

He squeezed Martin’s hand hoping it helped put him at ease (about what though, Jon wasn’t sure; that he was still paying attention, maybe?). Yet, Martin kept looking his way, even though their height difference made it awkward to do so while they walked.

“I-I’m glad you had a good time,” Jon commented neutrally, hoping it would prompt Martin for some details with more substance. 

It wasn’t the correct response. Martin’s shoulder slumped even more and he finally turned away. His cheeks were slightly sucked in, something he only did when trying to hide hurt feelings. A habit Jon recognized from a time that contained so many of his deepest regrets. It felt like missing the top step, stomach sweeping out of him when he found empty air instead of solid ground. 

“I— What— I’m sorry!” Jon stopped walking and pulled Martin into a hug. “What happened? What’s wrong?”

Martin gave a firm hug and a slow kiss to the top of Jon’s head, before pulling back to reply. “It’s— it’s nothing.” A wan smile that was just Martin trying to put on a brave face for him. Jon fought back the urge to just Know what it really was. Instead, he gave Martin a stern look, hoping it would be enough for Martin to explain. “It’s not a— It’s fine. Just a little joke we came up with while there. I’m just…” Martin let out a shaky breath. “I’m just sad you don’t get to keep that time as well. You deserved— you should get…” 

Martin made up his mind about— _something_ just then, it was clear in the square of his shoulders and the set of his jaw. Martin was digging in his heels and Jon wouldn’t _know_ about what, not without invading Martin’s privacy. 

With more resolution than before, Martin met Jon’s eyes. “It doesn’t matter. We’ll get there again after everything is fixed; you basically said as much anyway. And you’ll get to enjoy comfort again, without any apocalyptic time constraints hanging over our heads.”

Martin kissed Jon then, sweetly but lingering. As if Martin was doing his best to be a conduit for his comfortable happiness and pass it on to Jon. Jon had to admit, it was a very, _very_ noble attempt.

Still, Jon couldn’t help but fear that there was something else. Some knowledge the Eye either wasn’t passing on or was genuinely ignorant of, a true blindspot. If Jon could just look in to Martin’s memories—

He shut down that line of thought quickly. A week without the Eye had left him weak, and now that it was back full force, so were its temptations. Jon shored up his efforts, trusting Martin to tell him in his own time. If only the tape recorders had followed him as always, or he was the type to keep a journal. But numerous barely filled notebooks through the years had taught him that he was not. 

Unwilling to risk Knowing without Martin’s consent, Jon simply held his hand and trusted that one day, he’d understand how this should have gone instead.

**Author's Note:**

> I started this immediate after the patreon release of 181 but ended up hating large parts of it and shelved it. I cannot thank [Bresby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bresby) enough for helping me finally figure out what was wrong. Many thanks to the Magnus Writers discord as well for giving me the kick in the butt to get this finished and fielding my nitpicky questions. And as always, to Theo, for letting me whine at them and yelling at me for my tenses.
> 
> I have always planned on writing a sequel to this once the series is done and I see how canon shakes out (see how much I just have to reject and just create my own).
> 
> My tumblr is [azdesertwillow](https://azdesertwillow.tumblr.com/).


End file.
